


Perchance to love

by TooManyChoices



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, John really shouldn't listen in, M/M, Pre-Slash, Shakespearean Language, hidden feeling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-10
Updated: 2015-08-10
Packaged: 2018-04-13 22:42:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4540215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TooManyChoices/pseuds/TooManyChoices
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I think we can all agree Benedict Cumberbatch's voice is MADE for Shakespeare. Therefore....so is Sherlock's.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Perchance to love

“Alas, poor Billy! I knew him, Horatio: a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy”

Sherlock’s crystal enunciation and deep baritone echoed down the stairs and even before John stepped through the door, he rather suspected he’d find Sherlock perched on the back of his leather chair, the skull in his outstretched hand.

“Oh, friend John,” Sherlock looked up as John entered through the kitchen, watching as his flatmate dumped the shopping bags on the table, “hast thou returned from thy labours, tending to the weak and weary of our fair city.”

With a smile, John crossed his arms and leaned in the doorway, “Any particular reason we’re channelling the bard?”

Sherlock placed the skull on the table and smiled, “Dost thou mock me, fair John? Thou makes a mockery of my wit.”

With a chuckle, John shook his head and turned away, “Do what thou… likest,” John winced, “I am… forsooth… off for a…kip.”

With a deep rumbling laugh, Sherlock lifted Billy’s skull from the table again, “Alas Billy, John has forsaken us for the sweet oblivion of repose.”

Sherlock heard John’s feet on the stairs accompanied by a fond “ _git.”_

“Alas, we are alone and bereft, Billy. John has fled and we are again paler for his absence,” Sherlock called after him.

 

John however had paused on the stairs and, rather than completing his trip, sat quietly, an invisible audience to Sherlock’s monologue.

 

How are we to spend the currency of our lonely hours?

Are we to bemoan the lack of friend John

Or partake perhaps in sport with glass and vile potion

Ah, the air is oddly still without friend to share it

I miss the idle patter of his speech

He vexes me, Billy

For where I was once alone

And content to be same

I am now alone

And am not

 

John took in the gentle tinge of sadness in Sherlock’s voice, a window to a soul very few saw.

 

What is a heart, Billy

That it bears the strength to beat for 4 score years or more

And yet it is a trembling thing

Skipping and dancing when it should thunder and pace.

I do not know, I did not ask

For him to affect me so.

His glance, his touch

A simple thing and yet ‘tis not

‘Tis a troublesome thing of heart and head

 

What? You say I should proclaim my heart?

I should set my trembling soul in his hands

And risk my heart on the rocks of despair?

I cannot, shall not, must not

 

For our fair John is not for us

Not for him the firm or calloused palm

Nor the manly jut of passion’s sword

He seeks the gentle sigh

And the velveteen brush of the gentle sex.

While I do not.

 

John heard Sherlock’s heavy sigh and the hollow knock as Billy’s skull was set back on the mantle. He’d sat spellbound on the stair, wondering whether he should slip away and yet frozen in place as layer upon layer of Sherlock’s inner thoughts were peeled back.

 

So I shall silent, half of a whole

A secret man with a secret want

I shall call him friend and hold him as close as I dare

We shall run, and we shall chase

We shall live and one day

We shall die

And on that day

When the light dims and flickers

I shall look into his eyes and say

T’was enough, dear John

T’was sufficient

 

Silence fell in 221B, and John was surprised to find a fat salty tear making its way down his cheek. With a noiseless gulping breath he pushed himself to his feet and down the two stairs and through the open door.

Sherlock’s head darted up at John’s sudden appearance, lacking the expected wooden thud of the stirs preceding it.

“What…?” Sherlock began and stopped as John raised his hand.

“It’s…” John’s voice cracked, and he paused to clear his throat before continuing, “It’s not…”

“It’s not what?”

“What you said, Sherlock. When the light flickers and dims…”

Sherlock’s eyes widened, and what little colour he carried in his cheeks bled away.

“It’s not…sufficient.” John took two steps toward Sherlock, roughly striking away the wetness from his cheek, “and it’s _certainly_ not enough.”

“You heard?” Sherlock asked simply.

“I heard. Was it the truth?”

A mute nod answered him.

John closed the remaining distance and lifted a gentle hand, sinking it amongst glossy curls, “Then we need to talk.”


End file.
